His eyes find mine. For one impossible fraction of a second, I see him. The old Massimo. Not the Don. Not the monster the papers write about. The man who used to look at me like the world had narrowed down to one fragile, impossible thing.
Me.
His gaze softens. Just a crack. Just enough.
I love you.
The words aren't spoken. They don't need to be. Never had. They whisper through my mind the way they always did, the way they used to sound against my skin in the dark.
My chest caves in with the memory of it.
Hope flares, bright, stupid, lethal.
Then his face shuts down.
It's like watching steel slide into place. His jaw tightens. His eyes go flat. The softness disappears so completely that it's as if it never existed at all.
He's going to turn.
I know it.
He's going to turn away from me. Walk back into his fortress of glass and power and leave me exactly where I am, dirty, bleeding, held by a man who isn't afraid to hurt me. Something inside me screams before my mouth does.
Sean tightens his grip, muttering something sharp and impatient, his fingers digging deeper into my arm like a warning.
I scream again. "MASSIMO!"
As the sound echoes between us, I feel it, the moment my heart understands something my mind refuses to accept. If he turns away now,
I don't just lose my son. I lose the last lie that's kept me alive.
The morning holds its breath, waiting to see what he'll do.
I stare at her.For a heartbeat, the world fractures. She shouldn't exist here. Not like this. Not torn and bleeding and shaking in the morning light like something dragged straight out of my past and thrown at my feet.
An apparition.
A ghost.
Mercy.
If anyone in this world ever had the right to ask that of me, it wouldn't be her. She looks like she's been through a blender. Hair wild, clothes ruined, skin marked with dirt and blood and fear. Bruises already blooming beneath her eyes, on her arms, on her throat.
Just like the last time.
The memory slams into me without warning,locker room tile cold under my boots, blood everywhere, her shaking so hard I thought she'd break in half if I touched her wrong.
I hadn't turned away then.
I was a kid. Stupid. Soft enough to believe some things were worth bleeding for. I paid for that mistake. I tell myself I'm not that man anymore. I tell myself I'm stronger now. Smarter. Hard enough to survive anything.
But then I see the hand on her arm. That motherfucker's grip is wrong. Possessive. Tight enough to leave bruises she'll carry long after today. I can see his fingers digging in, claiming spacethat isn't his to take. My jaw locks. Anger surges fast and violent, cutting through every careful rule I've built my life on. I remind myself I'd step in for any woman. Any woman being handled like that in my territory would earn my intervention. That's order. That's control. That's not mercy.
So why shouldn't I do the same now?
Why shouldn't I do what I'd do anyway?
Except I know the truth.
